Middle-Aged Virgin with a Dog
by therealesther
Summary: Ingrid had known this was a bad idea.


**Middle-Aged Virgin with a dog**

Even before he took off his shirt, Ingrid had known this was a bad idea.

She had known it when he had picked her up on his scooter, taking a moment to help her buckle the chin strap of her helmet, even though by now she was quite practised at it.

She had known it when she had made him laugh over dinner with her anecdotes of Mr. Kong and the way he always seemed to bark in warning just before her phone would ring.

She had known it when the perky young baristas at Starbucks blushed and winked at him as he collected her skinny chai latte from the counter. "I'll get it," she insisted, ignoring his protests, "You paid for dinner."

She had known it when he walked her to her door, hovering close behind her until she finally turned around to say good night, only to be faced with eyes as pleading as Mr. Kong's did when he saw his bag of special treats on the counter.

She had known it when he said softly, "Please Ingrid, please let me in," moving closer to tuck her hair behind her ear.

She had known it when they had fallen down onto her overstuffed couch together, when he had abruptly pulled back (_I knew it, I knew it, he couldn't, not with me, not me_), and sat up, his hands grasping at the hem of his shirt.

In a flash he had peeled it up and over his head, emerging with slightly ruffled hair (it was longer now, but still gelled into submission), and dived back down to capture her lips again, as if this was completely natural and normal.

As if everything was fine.

As if it made perfect sense that someone half her age, with the kind of body she had only seen the likes of on the covers of men's health magazines lying around the office break room would be making out (_making out! Like a teenager! But she had never even done this much as a teenager_) with her on her couch, eager yet gentle hands tentatively skimming the hem of her skirt.

Blind panic flooded through her, and her hands, which had been helplessly fluttering up and over his back (_so smooth and warm!_) flew to his shoulders, and pushed.

Instantly, he pulled back with a frown, blue eyes full of concern.

"Ingrid, what's wrong? Are you ok?"

She stared at him for a moment, unable to find the words, and his frown deepened. He sat up, and stroked down her hips soothingly. At least, he looked like he intended it to be soothing. All it actually did was send a hot jolt of _something_ down into the pit of her stomach. She also became very aware that he was kneeling between her thighs. Shirtless.

"This is such a bad idea," she said.

He laughed.

"I don't know, I kind of like it here on the couch. But if you wanted to move to something more comfortable, like, oh, say a bed, I wouldn't say no." He grinned easily down at her.

"That's not what I meant," she said, the words somehow tumbling out before she could think better of them. "I meant we, us. We're a bad idea."

His grin faded.

"We're a bad idea?"

She couldn't look at his face.

"Yes, we're a bad idea. A crazy idea," she felt his hands slide away from her, but she couldn't stop talking. "A crazy, crazy idea. What was I thinking?"

His voice was low, his words careful as he replied, "Maybe, you were thinking that you liked me, and that I liked you, and that we're good for each other?"

She covered her face with her hands. He sounded so _sincere_. Not like a flippant, arrogant young man-child, but a thoughtful, sincere adult who wanted to make this work.

"You're half my age."

He sighed and her heart clenched. "If I had a dollar for every time you've told me that-"

"It's still true!" she shouted through the gaps of her fingers. "I'm an old woman, a sad, sad old woman with a dog-"

"That I helped you name!"

"-A dog, and a job wrangling rock star wannabes at an indie record label-"

"I fail to see how that's inferior to a job as a struggling student and part-time courier-"

"-and I haven't been on a date or gotten laid since college, while you have every waitress and barista this side of Brooklyn leaving their phone number somewhere on your person-"

He pulled her hands away from her face, his eyes wide.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold up."

She stopped, her face flushed, eyes stinging with tears. His blue eyes were wide with surprise.

"You're not a virgin?"

She blinked. "What? Of course not, I-oh my goodness, are you?"

He shook his head vigorously.

"Oh no, no, no way babe, not me. Do you want to know how many girls I slept with just last year before I met you?"

"Not really."

"It was a lot, ok? A _lot_."

She pressed her lips together and pulled her hands out of his grasp.

"Exactly."

He grabbed her hands again.

"No, no, all that proves is that I have not slept with anyone since I met you. Because I want _you_, in case that wasn't totally obvious right now." He looked at her pleadingly.

"Wait a minute," she eyed him suspiciously, "You thought I was a middle-aged virgin? A middle-aged virgin with a dog and no dance moves, and you still wanted, to, to be with me?"

The corner of his mouth curled up. She wanted to kiss it.

"Yeah, I thought it was kind of cool actually, that I'd get to be the first guy to rock your world, knock your socks off, that kind of thing." He shrugged, "But it's cool that you're not. I mean, you said it's been a while though, so it'll almost be like the first time again, right?"

"Sure," she said drily, but her heart was fluttering. Maybe it was ok, maybe this was something she could trust; maybe this would be a chance worth taking. Just like her list of resolutions.

"And for the record," he murmured, mouthing his way down her neck, hands sliding firm and sure up her thighs (_thank goodness she'd shaved_), "You have _awesome_ dance moves."

**Author's Note: The first fic I've written in ages, and it's totally outside all my current fandoms. I guess if the fic isn't there, you feel more motivated to write it yourself. Paul and Ingrid were the pairing from this movie that really grabbed me. I hope someone out there reads and enjoys this.**


End file.
